


Say Nothing, and Drink To Forget

by pure1magination



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Alcohol, Dancing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sleepy Cuddles, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure1magination/pseuds/pure1magination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...may as well be Bucky's motto. </p><p>He can't tell Steve how good he looks, or how much he wants to dance with him. Or how good he smells, or how he loves the way he smiles.. Bucky can't say any of that.</p><p>But he wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Nothing, and Drink To Forget

**Author's Note:**

> rated Teen for alcohol use/abuse

Another typical Friday night.

"C'mon Stevie, the girls are waiting!"

Steve rolls his baby blues, Bucky's eyes catch on the way Steve's eyelashes move, his heart catches at the derisive little snort Steve makes as he says "Yeah, yeah," and shrugs into his too-large suit jacket. Bucky's heart aches at the way that jacket hangs off of Steve's bony frame; he wishes they'd tailor suits just for Steve.

"We don't got all night!" Bucky calls as cheerfully as he can manage. Bucky is already dressed, hair slicked back, standing by the door, stance cocky. He exudes an air of confidence to mask the pain that lies underneath, pain no one can ever know.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," Steve mumbles as he puts on his shoes. His shoes which are also a size too big, which make Steve walk a bit awkwardly, which chafe his heels by the end of the night; why don't they make shoes for Steve?

Bucky grins and holds the door open.

Steve rolls his eyes and walks through it, muttering, "'m not your dame, Buck."

Bucky closes the door behind them and pretends that statement didn't feel like a knife to the ribs.

*

They swing by another apartment building to pick up the girls. Bucky's date has bouncing curls and kisses him on the cheek. Steve's date has her hair pinned back and smiles politely at him, disappointment tightening the corners of her mouth. Steve smiles back, sheepish.

All the way to the dance hall, Bucky is conscious that his date is clinging warmly to his arm, the side of one breast pressed against his bicep; Steve's date is walking two feet away from him, looking elsewhere.

He hears Steve trying to start up a conversation- "So where do you work?" "I like your blouse." "Ever gone dancing before?" -but every question is answered with one word, or an expression Bucky cannot see; he can practically  _hear_ her blowing him off. It makes Bucky grit his teeth behind his smile.

Bucky's date decides to talk his ear off.

That's the last he hears of Steve and Steve's date for a while.

*

The dance hall is crowded, air hazy with smoke, floor thick with feet. Everywhere Bucky turns, there's another pair of legs to dodge, another pair of eyes to meet. He smiles at all of them, hiding behind a mask of charm. 

The four of them get a table; Bucky sits next to his date, Steve.. adjacent to his. They order drinks.

"Just a soda for me, please!" Bucky's date says brightly.

"Gin and tonic," says Steve's date.

"Becca!" chastises Bucky's date.

"What? I ain't no pussycat."

"Just water for me," says Steve.

Bucky's expression twitches. "Scotch on the rocks." He winks at the waitress. "The good stuff."

Bucky already knows, halfway through the night, he'll be ordering drinks for Steve, which Steve will frown at him for- like always- insist that he doesn't need- like always- and drink anyway.

"Who's ready for dancin'!" Bucky announces brightly to his date. She eagerly grabs his arm and heads to the dance floor.

*

Bucky can't do this without alcohol.

A  _lot_ of alcohol.

His date giggles at the amount of times he's gone back to the table to down another thirsty gulp of Scotch, and Bucky just grins at her and says something about dancing better when he's drunk. Which is a complete bald-faced lie, because the more he drinks, the more he stumbles.

But he hast to, because he can't take his eyes off of Steve.

Steve's date long ago left him to dance with some other guy. She fed him some excuse, got up, Steve nodding and saying it was okay; she went to the corner of the room and disappeared for a while; next thing Bucky knew she was on the dance floor in the arms of some other guy.

And Steve is still sitting at the table, playing with his hands, looking around, taking occasional sips of water-- and watching Bucky.

Bucky doesn't need to look to know when Steve's eyes are on him; his skin burns as though Steve's gaze was Steve's hands, fresh out of the shower, caressing his bare skin.

Bucky teases him whenever he goes back for another swig of Scotch, but his eyes betray sympathy; he keeps a leash on his hatred for any girl that refuses to dance with Steve, at his relief that no girl looks twice at Steve, at his guilt that he wants Steve to be noticed, but not taken.

Steve plays it off as though it doesn't bother him, every single time, but Bucky can see the hurt and disappointment in his eyes.

*

The longer Bucky dances, the more Bucky drinks, the more he wishes this dame in his arms was Steve. Her laugh is like a stumbling cheesegrater, tinny against his ears. Her perfume is like old dusty flowers soaked in raspberry ice cream. Her teeth are a dull shade of yellow, and could use better brushing. Her breath smells of stale soda. She keeps pressing her soft bosom against Bucky, and Bucky likes breasts, but he keeps pushing her away because the breasts ruin the illusion that he's dancing with Steve.

She's too tall, too rounded, too fragrant to be Steve; Steve is all gentle hair and commanding eyes and self-depreciating smiles; Steve is all sunshine and aftershave; Steve would never dance like this, hold him like this.

Bucky drinks more Scotch.

He's stumbling, now, too drunk to dance properly. He asks the girl if she'd to be taken home. She says she'll wait for her friend, but she "had a  _swell_ time, and would love to do this again!" and she kisses Bucky, right on the lips.

Bucky, glad to be free of her, heads over to Steve- lighthouse, beacon, shining ray of sunlight- and trips over nearly every obstacle in his way. Grinning too wide, swaying on his feet, he says, "Have a good time?"

Steve pulls a sad little smile, puts money on the table, and says, "Yeah, Buck."

*

Bucky isn't too drunk to notice Steve's arm around his waist, Steve's wiry little body holding him up as they walk home; the faint smell of nervous sweat beneath his armpits, the lingering haze of food and drink and smoke clinging to his jacket.

Bucky is aware that he is rambling, slurring his words, talking about how much he loves dancing, "'s  _great"_ , and Steve patiently listening to him as Steve walks and Bucky stumbles.

Steve lets them into their apartment with small, practical movements; Bucky loves the way Steve moves. He follows Steve into the apartment.

Steve closes the door behind them.

*

Somehow Bucky makes it to his bed. Steve helped him a lot. He knows; he can still feel his skin burning in the shape of Steve's fingerprints.

He turns on his side, facing Steve; the weather is cold so their beds are pushed together. The world seems to turn with him and away from him at the same time; his head is swimming. "Steve," he slurs.

"Yeah, Buck," Steve answers, calmly getting undressed.

Bucky grins. "Should come t' bed like this more often."

Steve pauses for a second, half in and out of his pants. The bones of his back are cast in soft shadow by the moonlight. "What, drunk off your ass?" Steve mutters.

Bucky's grin widens a little. "No, stupid! C'mere."

Steve sighs quietly and finishes undressing. He comes to bed in his undershirt and underpants, lifts up the covers, crawls in.

Bucky pulls him close and wraps himself around Steve's body. His skin is surprisingly cold, or maybe Bucky's is surprisingly warm. Either way, he snuggles closer.

Steve doesn't protest.

Finally, with the sweet relief of Steve in his arms, Bucky drifts off to sleep.

***

His breath smells like scotch, his chest hair tickles Steve's cheek, and he snores like a giant cat, purring too loud, but this has always been Steve's favorite part of the night.

He always hates these double dates; Bucky's date is invariably tittering and clinging to Bucky like she's made of Saran Wrap; Steve's date is invariably disappointed and uninterested. He doesn't know why Bucky keeps trying to set him up with these girls. None of them want him.

At least he gets to watch Bucky dancing.

Bucky is so graceful, until he gets drunk; his motions are so fluid. He moves in time with the music like he was born with the melody flowing through his veins; his muscles shift just beneath his clothes, and his smile is so bright. And Steve knows in his gut why all the girls always want to dance with Bucky, why they always want to kiss him.

But they don't know Bucky the way Steve does.

They don't have sketchbooks lined with his face.

It's not the gentle buzz of the alcohol Bucky always gets him halfway through the night. It's simply this: being held in Bucky's arms. Bucky breathing sleepily into his hair, holding him close like he's protecting Steve from something.

That's what makes Steve's heart ache.

In the warm, dark, protective cocoon of their blankets, Steve nuzzles his nose against Bucky's chest hairs. Reflexively, Bucky pulls him closer. It's always hard to breathe when Bucky's holding him this close, and it has very little to do with Steve's asthma.

 _I love you, ya big jerk,_ Steve tells him silently as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
